


chokehold

by ktula



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Choking, Felching, Kylo Ren is Not Matt the Radar Technician, M/M, Manhandling, RACK not SSC, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sweat, Unprotected Sex, classism and rank snobbery, past Kylo Ren/Mitaka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/pseuds/ktula
Summary: “I would do it to you,” the tech repeats, voice just a shade darker. “If that’s what you wanted.”Mitaka turns, and stares at him. There’s no way it’s this easy. “You would choke me.”“Yeah,” the technician says. And then he extends his bare hand, palm up. “I told you,” he rumbles. “I’ve got big hands.”





	chokehold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asher_Ephraim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_Ephraim/gifts).



> Breathplay and choking are risky activities, and this fic is not an instruction manual on how to engage in them safely.
> 
> There are more explicit warnings in the end notes, if you're wondering about anything in the tags.

They send him to the fucking medbay, because of fucking course they do. Nobody would send Kylo Ren to the medbay over something as stupid as split fucking knuckles, but of course they send Matt. He wouldn’t have busted his knuckles if the trainee working with him had cleaned the damn gunk out of his ears and listened to anything Matt was telling him. His boss should be happy he’d punched the wall instead of the tech, but no, she’d yelled at him in front of everyone and called in troopers to make sure he actually went all the way to medbay, so now he’s stuck here, sitting on a fucking narrow bed that creaks underneath him every time he moves like it’s gonna crack and dump his ass on the floor.

They’d probably make him fill out paperwork for that too, even though it wouldn’t be his fucking fault.

Matt scowls at his bloody knuckles, scowls at the floor, and then scowls at the trooper who’s still standing there, even though they should have left ages ago.

“I’m late for the gym,” Matt says. “The hell’s the doc?”

“Priority case,” the trooper says flatly.

Matt scowls, slides off the bed and—

“Back on the cot, technician,” the trooper says shortly.

—priority case, his ass. Matt had expected something dramatic, like that time one of the techs had fallen off a ladder and taken a durabar right through the chest, but there’s nothing special down the end of the hall, just an enlisted officer sitting on one of the beds. He’s got his uniform jacket off and everything, wearing a standard-issue tank top in officer black, which is way nicer than the banthashit white they keep sending to Matt, which gets dirty the minute you so much as breathe on the fucking thing. The officer’s fucking pretty, too, delicate features and dark hair. Lieutenant, based on the rank markings on his neatly folded jacket.

The officer tips his head back, and Matt’s heart fucking stops.

Even from here, Matt can see that his neck is covered in livid bruises the shape of fingerprints.

The officer has been touched by Kylo Ren.

* * *

Going back to work afterwards fucking sucks, and that’s all Mitaka is going to say about that. Being forcibly removed from the bridge for 72 hours for a mandated recovery period feels like a punishment, especially once he realizes they’ve blocked his comm from receiving any official communication—and he has no interest in privately messaging Thanisson, because Thanisson will interpret that as a request for gossip, and it’ll undo every bit of distance Mitaka’s been trying to keep between them. Without his comm, he’s got nothing to do except stare at the ceiling, document the slow improvements in his health, eat soup at half the normal pace, which absolutely kills his mealtime efficiency, and wank off to First Order-approved porn—which is to say, the boring shit, absolutely devoid of kinks that aren’t military in origin, and focused on safety practices that have never been a particular criteria of Mitaka’s sexual habits.

According to his—according to his ex, however, Mitaka’s criteria are _not representative of First Order practices_ , _unsafe_ , and _going to get you killed someday, Dopheld._

Mitaka brings his bare fingers to his neck, prods at the bruises. He can hardly feel them anymore.

(The memory of being choked still makes his cock hard.)

It would have been perfectly safe if _—_ if his ex hadn’t had such a fucking stick up his ass about the whole thing. Who better to do that kind of shit with than a mind reader, really?

Especially since the post-breakup random hookup _wasn’t_ a mind-reader, so that enthusiastically brief fuck had resulted bruising significant enough to warrant a pre-emptive medbay visit, and _that_ had resulted in _this_ , and—

—well.

There’s no reason for brass to be sanding his balls over it, that’s all.

Mistakes happen.

*

The bridge is busier than usual when Mitaka shows up, even though it’s an hour before shift change. Everybody is staring at him, and there are twice as many eyes as usual, because the desk is full of technicians. There must be some kind of hardware upgrade happening. Just Mitaka’s luck.

He keeps his chin up and his back straight as he strides across the bridge. Refuses to make eye contact with any of them. Marches directly to his station, glares at the Petty Officer standing there until they log out and scurry out of his way, and then logs in with a sigh of relief as his comm syncs back to the network and his messages start rolling in.

There. This is good. This is fine. He can just—resume normalcy, move on with his life, get everything—

“Lieutenant,” comes the crisp command from beside him.

Mitaka snaps to attention as he turns to face his commanding officer. “General Hux.”

“Walk with me.”

Mitaka locks his workstation, and falls in line behind the general.

They’re halfway down one of the endless halls before Hux speaks. “You’re on shift an hour earlier than scheduled.”

“Technical issue with my datapad,” Mitaka lies, knowing full well that IT had cut him off on purpose. “I wanted to get caught up on my messages before I was officially required on duty.”

Hux says nothing in response, just keeps walking.

(It hasn’t escaped Mitaka’s notice that Hux’s pace is slightly slower than usual. He resents the accommodation intensely.)

“It’s come to my attention,” Hux says, finally, “that the…arrangement between yourself and Commander Ren has come to an end.”

Mitaka ignores both the scowl and the tears that are suddenly vying for attention, keeps his face blank. “It has.” His voice only cracks a little.

Hux doesn’t remark on it. “You were recently in medbay.”

“I was.”

“Ren has…posted himself away from ship. I’m unable to get in touch with him.” Hux stops walking, turns to face Mitaka. “I regret that I have to ask this, but I cannot avoid the question.”

“Sir?”

Hux nods toward Mitaka’s neck.

(The bruising isn’t even fucking visible. Mitaka covered the yellow-brown remnants with concealer this morning, the same way he does with any other visible sex injuries. Hux must have gotten access to his medbay records somehow, and Mitaka feels naked and exposed in a way that he absolutely does not enjoy.)

“Was Ren involved in your recent absence from my bridge?”

“Absolutely not,” Mitaka says sharply. “If you cross-compare Ky—Commander Ren’s schedule with my medbay visit and the timestamps I provided in the incident report, you’ll find that he was already off-ship when the incident occurred.”

Hux raises an eyebrow momentarily before his expression smooths over, becomes blank as he turns and continues walking. “You know you can talk to me,” he says. “I’m your superior officer. It’s important to me that you’re safe, and it’s important to me that you’re…protected, from any incidents on ship, domestic, casual, or otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka says. “Thank you for your concern, sir. As per my medical records, it was a consensual event with a one-time partner.”

“Mmm,” Hux says neutrally.

Mitaka wants to tell him that it won’t happen again—but if he could promise to stick to vanilla sex, well, then, he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.

*

When Mitaka gets back to the bridge, there’s a protein bar sitting on the corner of his workstation.

He glances at it, brushes it into the trash, and logs back in to sort through his messages.

*

That night, Mitaka lies on the bed with one hand on his dick, and the other hand wrapped around his throat. He tries to press himself back into the bed, jerk himself off at the same time, but it’s not the same as actually getting choked.

The bruises are still sensitive, but it’s not the same.

*

“Thanisson,” Mitaka hisses the next day.

The Petty Officer looks up, startled.

Mitaka brandishes the sandwich, still perfectly wrapped from the cafeteria. “What is this,” he asks, voice tight, conscious of how many people are around them. “There’s food at my station again.” He swallows back the question he’s trying to ask— _is it Hux?—_ because he knows he’ll get laughed at for even suggesting it.

Thanisson gives him a weird look. “It’s not yours?”

“We’re not supposed to have food on the bridge,” Mitaka says in the same whisper.

“I thought it was a medical—”

Mitaka bites back his first, second, and third responses. “I don’t have any ongoing medical accommodations. It was a one-time incident.”

Thanisson shrugs. “We had techs over earlier, though, maybe it’s one of theirs?”

They both stare at the sandwich.

Now that Thanisson mentions it, there is a slight thumbprint in the corner of the wrapper and a dent in the sandwich itself, like the person who picked it up maybe grabbed it too hard.

“It’s going in the trash,” Mitaka says, finally.

“Best place for it,” Thanisson says. “You don’t know where their greasy fingers have been.”

*

Mitaka figures that’s the end of it. Two items of food in the trash, and a bulletin he posts on the public channels to remind everyone to keep their personal possessions, including food, to themselves, and off the bridge.

It’s not.

When Mitaka gets back from his afternoon meeting, there’s a glove left lying on his workstation. Deliberately positioned right over his keyboard, where he couldn’t possibly miss it—and where it couldn’t possibly have been forgotten.

Before anybody can see it, Mitaka shoves the glove into the pocket of his jacket and logs back in so he can get back to work.

*

After his shift is over and he’s safely back in his room, Mitaka takes the glove out.

It’s a technician’s glove. It doesn’t smell of grease or engine oil, but does smell slightly of burnt electrical. There are lines marked into the fingertips, as though something had been wound around them tightly, or dragged across them.

Experimentally, Mitaka slides his hand into the glove. It’s a huge glove, and it eclipses his own hand completely, the fingers left empty from the top joint to the tips, and the wrist strap far too loose to keep it from slipping off even if it’s fastened as tight as it goes. (His ex had hands like that, big hands that would have fit beautifully around his throat.)

The glove is slightly warm from being in Mitaka’s pocket all day, but it’s easy enough to imagine that the heat actually comes from another man’s hand.

Mitaka lies back on his bed, presses his loosely gloved hand against his throat. The fabric is oddly grippy in places, but smooth in others. Nothing at all like the leather gloves he’s used to, and just different enough that he can feel his cock start to firm before he’s even got his pants undone. He flicks his jodhpurs open, strokes his cock a few times, and then grips it tightly, presses down on his own throat. He chokes himself, pretending his gloved hand is someone else’s, not the hookup, not Ky—not Ren, and he waits for the kick of adrenaline and endorphins and—

—it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come, but after a moment, Mitaka slides his gloved hand from his neck to his mouth, crams all four of his fingers inside. Chokes, instead, on the scent of electrical fires and wiring and another man’s sweat, starts moving his bare hand on his cock while he’s drooling around the loose fabric in his mouth.

When he finally comes, it feels a little more like a relief than it usually does.

*

Mitaka keeps the glove. Tucks it in the crate under his bed, with the rest of his toys. It can stay there, along with everything else he owns that doesn’t get much use.

*

There’s a note on his workstation the next day.

Mitaka’s too conscious of everyone looking at him to bother reading the note at first, slips it into his pocket as quickly as he can. But it eats at him over the course of the morning, so he waits until one of the technicians drops something that clatters down into the pit, takes advantage of the distraction to pull the note out and read it.

_I have big hands._

That’s it, that’s all. There’s no signature, no call-sign, no identifying information on the note.

Mitaka frowns at the paper. He’s unsure as to whether it’s a come-on or not. The printing is terribly neat, but smudges when he drags his gloved finger across it, so it’s definitely done by hand and—the fuck is he doing, staring at this on the bridge anyway. He quickly folds the note up, shoves it back in his pocket. Looks up.

There are a couple of technicians staring at him, all of whom turn away the moment Mitaka narrows his eyes at them.

Except the blond one.

The blond one with messy hair and thick oversized glasses just keeps staring.

Mitaka opens up his comm, messages Thanisson.

_Lt. Mitaka: How long is this upgrade supposed to last? The entire bridge stinks like technician._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Scheduled for at least another week BUT the ones working by me were muttering about a delay._

_Lt. Mitaka: Why?_

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Something about the calcinator._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Fuck if I know what that means lol._

When Mitaka looks up from his comm, the blond technician is still staring at him.

*

That night, Mitaka opens up the sanctioned hookup app, scrolls through his options. They’re pretty dismal.

Nobody’s going to do what he wants.

And if somebody does, it’ll just be like last time.

In the end, Mitaka shuts his datapad off and yanks his crate out from under the bed, fully intending to just get a dildo and fuck himself until his wrist cramps—but the glove is right there. He takes it out, crams it in his mouth until he can hardly breathe through it, presses his hand over his throat.

The glove tastes a little like burnt electrical and a little like his own spit, and when he comes all over his hand, his mind is a peaceful white-out of absolutely nothing.

It’s fine.

_*_

Commander Ren shows up back on ship at the end of the week to a frosty reception from General Hux.

Mitaka could interpret the tilt of Ren’s helmet if he wanted to. He knows it’s probably paired with the kicked loth-cat look that Ren gets when his feelings are hurt.

He could interpret it, but he doesn’t want to.

It’s fine.

*

Mitaka leaves the bridge via the side entrance two hours after his shift is officially done, and nearly runs into someone rounding the corner.

It’s the blond technician with the big glasses, and instead of backing off, he’s just…staring.

He’s extremely big, wide across the shoulders, intimidating even with his hands in the pockets of his poorly-fitting coveralls and hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed in about—

“What are you doing,” the tech demands roughly.

Mitaka glares up at him, steadfastly ignoring the shiver that goes down his spine. “I’m off-duty,” he says.

The technician doesn’t respond other than to stretch his arm out, rest his gloved palm on the wall above Mitaka’s shoulder, lean in. He’s close enough to Mitaka that he could pin Mitaka against the wall easily, if he were so inclined. If that sort of thing was considered _foreplay_ and not _an interrogation technique._

“I’m an enlisted officer,” Mitaka points out, as though the rank difference isn’t blatantly obvious. The technician doesn’t respond, and Mitaka suppresses the urge to step toward—to step back from him. Get some space so that he can breathe something other than stale sweat. “My shift is complete, and I’m going for a drink. In the officer’s lounge.” He pauses, and then adds, “Your badge won’t scan there.”

The technician huffs out an exasperated breath, brings his other hand out of his pocket to run it through his hair. Mitaka flicks his gaze up to track the movement and realizes something awful.

The technician is only wearing one glove.

The technician is wearing one glove, and the hand running through his blond hair is naked, and what’s more, Mitaka has a sudden suspicion about the location of the other glove, especially once he turns his head just slightly, looks up at the technician’s other hand, and confirms it’s the exact same glove right down to the burnt electrical smell of it, the glove that’s a matched partner to the one in a crate under his bed.

The one he’s been masturbating with.

(Mitaka’s heartrate is picking up, and he hates himself for it.)

“Then what,” the technician demands. “After the drink.”

“None of your business.”

The technician inhales quickly, bites down on his own lip. “Show me your neck.”

“The fuck?”

“Your neck,” the technician says, voice low as he leans in closer to Mitaka, hand still on the wall just above Mitaka’s shoulder. “I’ve heard rumours about you.”

“Rumours are a petty waste of—”

“I know Kylo Ren choked you,” the technician insists, his voice a low rumble right next to Mitaka’s ear. “I want to see the bruises. Show me.”

The sudden rush of fury and hurt is exactly what Mitaka needs to snap the fuck out of whatever fugue he’s in—but instead of escaping and heading back to the bridge where there’s actually some goddamn security and a handful of witnesses, Mitaka just tips his head back against the wall and roughly yanks the neck of his uniform down, exposing the faint remaining shadows of a stranger’s fingers.

The tech’s eyes widen, distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses.

“Happy now, you voyeuristic fuck?” Mitaka snaps.

The technician tilts his head, peers at Mitaka’s neck. He’s so close that Mitaka can feel the heat of the technician’s breath against his skin, and he thanks the stars that the goosebumps slowly rising on his forearms are completely hidden by his uniform.

“Kylo Ren didn’t do this,” the technician says suddenly.

“He refused,” Mitaka confirms. _Interrogation techniques don’t belong in the bedroom, Dopheld._ He lets go of his uniform, adjusts it again so that it sits perfectly, and his neck is covered. Fixes his gloves, even though his palms are so sweaty that no amount of tugging at the cuffs is going to make them comfortable. “So don’t flatter him. He doesn’t deserve it.” Mitaka takes a breath, conscious that his face is burning from his forehead through his ears to his neck, and probably down into his chest too.

The technician is still staring at him.

“Sorry I ruined your hero worship,” Mitaka says, and then he ducks under the technician’s arm and starts heading down the hall at a pace Hux would be proud of, mentally upgrading the drink he’s about to have from a single whiskey to a series of shots, and that’s just to get started—

“I would do it,” the tech calls out from behind him.

His deep voice echoes in the empty hall.

Mitaka stops walking. Breathes deeply. Does not turn around. Does not look down at himself, because he knows it’s only the uniform keeping him modest at this point.

“I would do it to you,” the tech repeats, voice just a shade darker. “If that’s what you wanted.”

Mitaka turns, and stares at him. _There’s no way it’s this easy._ “You would choke me.”

“Yeah,” the technician says. And then he extends his bare hand, palm up. “I told you,” he rumbles. “I’ve got big hands.” The light is glinting off his enormous glasses, but it’s not enough of a reflection to hide the manic look in his eyes. It’s the look of a man who is just barely restraining a series of fucked-up fetishes.

“I told you I was going for a drink,” Mitaka says.

The technician scowls at him, shoves his bare hand back into his pocket.

“But fine,” Mitaka adds.

“What?”

“Fine,” Mitaka repeats, and he turns around, and starts heading for his room without watching to see if the technician is following behind him. It’s entirely possible that this is a stupid, reckless decision—but whatever. It’s been made, and if the technician is shit in bed, Mitaka will see to it that he isn’t on the team working on the bridge anymore.

*

Mitaka comes with the technician’s huge cock buried in his ass and that massive hand wrapped tight around his throat. His orgasm is an immediate relief, a rush of endorphins so strong that he wavers on his feet a moment, contemplates passing out, just briefly. Just for a second.

The technician grunts and lets go of Mitaka’s throat, fucking into him harder, and pounding the last remnants of breath right out of his lungs. There are spots dancing in front of Mitaka’s eyes as he collapses forward onto his desk, rides the last couple of thrusts out with only the tips of his boots touching the floor, his face pressed into the screen of his own datapad. When the technician comes, he groans like some kind of animal, slumps down over Mitaka’s back. He’s heavy, and hot, and Mitaka feels like he’s being crushed.

It’s amazing.

Mitaka can’t remember the last time he felt this good during sex. He might _never_ have felt this good during sex—and now that the technician’s hand is off his neck, Mitaka doesn’t feel a damn thing. No pain, no discomfort, just a slight ache, and a longing to do it again, like, immediately.

(He shifts, and some of the technician’s come leaks out of his ass. Maybe he won’t do it again immediately. He should have insisted on a barrier, but the technician’s hand had been around his throat the moment they’d gotten inside Mitaka’s room, and the touch was so welcome that everything else Mitaka was planning to say had immediately evaporated.)

Mitaka tugs his jacket down so that it covers his arse, reaches down for the waistband of his pants to pull them back up. He could really go for that drink now, maybe suck the technician’s cock once they’ve had a few minutes to recover. Mitaka turns his head to ask, and realizes that the technician is already half-dressed. Squints, and watches the technician’s bare torso disappear under a grimy undershirt, suspenders, and the bland technician’s coveralls. The orange vest is in a tangled pile on the floor.

The technician hasn’t said a word the entire time.

Mitaka waits until the technician is almost at the door before speaking. “Do you want to do this again sometime?”

The technician turns, takes off his glasses to wipe sweat off his face, and narrows his eyes at Mitaka. “What?”

“Wasn’t it good for you?” Mitaka challenges him.

The technician immediately goes red, mumbles something too quietly for Mitaka to hear.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” the technician says belligerently.

“Alright, then,” Mitaka says, standing up and tugging at his tunic so that he’s covered. “I’ll comm you.”

*

Mitaka doesn’t have the technician’s comm info. He realizes this halfway through a boring meeting wherein he’s already fantasized vividly about the technician’s hand around his throat extensively enough that he’d really, really like to make that into a reality as soon as possible. Like, say, tonight.

But he doesn’t have any contact information.

Sighing, he moves his datapad under the table, messages Thanisson instead.

_Lt. Mitaka: How’_ _s bridge?_

_Petty Officer Thanisson: UGH._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Everything smells like technician. You were right._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: They are the weirdest, I swear half of what they’re saying to each other isn’t even in Basic._

_Lt. Mitaka: Right._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: One of them was trying to leave shit on your workstation. I told him to get out!_

_Petty Officer Thanisson: He GROWLED at me._

The appropriate reaction would be horror. Maybe shock, at the loss of decorum. Righteous fury?

It’s not what Mitaka’s experiencing now.

_Lt. Mitaka: The blond one with the big glasses?_

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Yup._

What he’s experiencing now is an entirely inappropriate erection.

Mitaka shifts in his seat, considers the content of his next message while he watches one of the other lieutenants drone on about something he could have successfully summarized in less than five minutes. Honestly, it’s for the best Hux isn’t in this meeting, because he’s verbally lashed people to tears for less.

His comm light flickers in his lap before he’s decided what to say.

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Got his ID number, though, idiot technician dropped his badge._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: I’m gonna make a report once Hux stops glaring at me._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: I think he hates me._

_Lt. Mitaka: I’m sure it’_ _s fine._

_Lt. Mitaka: Don’t worry about the report, though._

_Lt. Mitaka: Tuck the ID under my keyboard, I’ll look after it._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: You’d do that for me?_

_Lt. Mitaka: Sure._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: My hero, thank you._

_Petty Officer Thanisson: Wanna go for a drink later?_

That message, Mitaka leaves on read.

He’ll blame the meeting when he gets back to the bridge, and then just avoid answering the question, go back to keeping his distance.

Thanisson isn’t his type anyway.

*

“Both hands,” Mitaka begs. “Please, come on, just—”

The technician—Matt—nods, pulls his fingers out of Mitaka’s ass, and then, without wiping off, wraps that hand around Mitaka’s neck too, slowly tightens his grip.

It’s perfect. Mitaka bucks underneath him, writhing on the floor, trying and failing to get any purchase whatsoever. The technician is huge, and immensely strong, and what he lacks in Force abilities he makes up for in a complete lack of squeamishness.

(Ren was always—particular. About hygiene, about ritual, about not getting lube in his hair. Matt doesn’t give a fuck—there’s lube smeared on one lens of his glasses, nearly covering the entire right lens, and he doesn’t care that he’s naked and Mitaka still has most of his uniform on. He’s here, he’s present, and he’s entirely focused on choking the fuck out of Mitaka while he tries to ram his cock up Mitaka’s ass.)

“Fucking open your ass,” Matt grunts, thrusting his massive cock against Mitaka’s thigh.

Mitaka wheezes, sucks in a partial breath. “Can’t.”

Matt snarls at him, blond hair stuck to his face with sweat. He takes his hands off Mitaka’s throat, and just as Mitaka rears up to get the pressure back, Matt scrunches his fingers together, shoves his hand into Mitaka’s mouth, where Mitaka chokes, sputters, and gags on it.

Then he takes his other hand down to his cock, roughly shoves Mitaka’s thighs open, and slowly presses his way in.

It feels _amazing_. Matt is big—thick and long, sizable enough that Mitaka needs to spend extra time prepping himself in the refresher before they get down to things. The burn is good, though—it puts a nice edge on the experience even before Matt puts his hand on Mitaka’s throat to really up the ante. Matt’s lucky it’s a great cock—because the actual mechanics of sex with him aren’t that great. His rhythm is unsteady at best, he sweats so much that Mitaka’s uniform is always a write-off by the end, and his dirty talk is so horrific that Mitaka has prayed for a black-out more than once—but his cock is so thick that Mitaka can’t clench down on it, even when he orgasms, and the sex Matt gives him is exactly the kind of sex Mitaka wants.

This time is no different—Matt thrusts unevenly into Mitaka, staring down at his hand over Mitaka’s throat. Mitaka comes first, all over his own uniform, and then Matt comes almost immediately afterwards, while Mitaka is lying there, chest heaving, trying to get control of himself.

He watches Matt get dressed afterwards, tugging on his coveralls and struggling to get his vest situated back on his broad shoulders. He’s oddly handsome, in certain lights, like when he takes his glasses off to wipe the sweat off his face and Mitaka gets a glimpse of his eyes, which are a remarkable honey-brown.

“Not bad for a technician,” Mitaka says, propping himself up on his elbows to watch.

On second thought, he’s probably light-headed from the oxygen deprivation.

Matt looks at him sharply, but doesn’t say anything.

“Again?” Mitaka asks, just before Matt slams his hand on the access panel to leave.

Matt looks over at him, startled, his eyes wide. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Mitaka says. “I’ll comm you.”

He waits till the door slides shut behind Matt, and then collapses back onto the floor.

It’s entirely possible that this is the best sex he’s ever had.

It’s too bad it’s with a technician.

*

There’s a protein bar sitting on top of his workstation when he gets back after his afternoon meeting. He’s just about to sweep it into the trash when he feels the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

Looks over.

Matt is there, standing in a group of other technicians. But instead of looking at whatever it is the rest of them are looking at, Matt is watching Mitaka.

Matt is watching Mitaka like he’s prey.

Mitaka picks the protein bar up.

Matt doesn’t shift, or move, or break eye contact.

Feeling like he’s in a trance—that same post-sex haze he gets after Matt chokes the living hell out of him—Mitaka slides the protein bar into the pocket of his jacket. It’s a just-barely noticeable bulge that will go undetected unless there’s a surprise uniform inspection, which likely won’t happen.

Matt nods his head, once, and then turns back to his work.

Mitaka’s face is burning when he turns back to his workstation.

*

“Did you like it,” Matt growls into Mitaka’s ear.

They’re on the rug this time, and Mitaka has already carpet-burned his knees raw with the way Matt is fucking hard into him from behind, his forearms balanced on Mitaka’s back, and both hands rubbing on his throat.

“So much,” Mitaka whimpers, bracing his hands against the base of the wall to protect his head from getting shoved into the wall on any particularly hard thrusts.

Matt’s breath hitches for a moment before he slams back into Mitaka. “Those are the best protein bars on the ship.” Slam. “Don’t let them go to waste.” Slam. “I’m not supposed to have them.” Slam—and this time, he moves one of his hands to Mitaka’s shoulder, hauls Mitaka up onto his knees, and fucks up into him that way, thrusts about as shallow as Matt’s dick is capable of being, and fast enough to punch any of the remaining breath right out of Mitaka’s lungs. “You—should—respect—the—gifts—I—give—you—like—this—dick—”

Mitaka gasps. “Kylo!” he calls out. “Fucking—shit! Kylo!” He comes helplessly all over himself, and then collapses back against Matt’s chest as Matt stills underneath him, hand twitching on Mitaka’s throat.

Mitaka’s chest heaves, and a second shudder of pleasure goes through him.

Matt pulls his cock out of Mitaka’s ass, and Mitaka sinks down to the floor, coughing into his arm. Everything reeks of sweat and lube and body-fluids, and the rug is probably ruined.

“I think I came again,” Mitaka whispers, feeling his cock leak onto the ruined rug.

Matt doesn’t say anything in response.

Mitaka shivers, closes his eyes. He’s feeling something…that he doesn’t normally feel, in that he’s vaguely contemplating asking Matt to stay. Ren never would—always kicked Mitaka out after they were done so he could focus on his work, because Force users didn’t need to sleep or some shit, but Mitaka’s seen how Matt looks in the mornings, always one of the last technicians to the bridge, and he’d walked in on Matt’s supervisor giving him shit for falling asleep under a console the other day, so he knows Matt sleeps, and maybe Matt would like to sleep here, maybe Matt would fuck him in the morning, too, right before his shift so he can walk onto the bridge with the ache still in his throat and Matt’s come seeping out of his ass—

—and what’s he gonna do, walk onto the bridge with Matt skulking behind him, because he’s gone from fucking the co-commander of the entire fucking ship to a technician that he probably outranks four times over?

Mitaka scrubs his hand back through his hair. This entire thing is getting him all fucked up.

He might still ask, though.

He looks over, only to realize that Matt is up already, and pulling his overalls back on, still scowling.

His cock is still hard, shoving against his zipped-up coveralls.

“Hey,” Mitaka says.

Matt doesn’t even look at him, just grabs his vest in one massive hand, slaps the exit panel with the other, and stomps out of Mitaka’s room.

Mitaka sighs, lays back down on the filthy rug. His ass is uncomfortably wet, and he’s not sure what went wrong.

*

He doesn’t remember he called Matt by Kylo’s name until the middle of his next shift.

That would probably explain it, though.

Also, Matt is definitely ignoring him.

*

_Lt. Mitaka: Hey, did you want to meet up again?_

_*_

_Lt. Mitaka: Look, I know last time was a shitshow._

_*_

_Lt. Mitaka: So you’re just done then, huh? That’s how this is? You’re just done?_

_*_

_Lt. Mitaka: Whatever._

_*_

Mitaka re-activates his dating profile. Goes on a bunch of mediocre dates, mostly with men who significantly out-rank him. Men with nicer quarters than his own. Men that feed him better food than fucking—protein bars, stolen from the cafeteria, men who feed him steaks and wine and expensive brandy.

He blames the alcohol for his inability to get off with them, even on dates when he’s stone-cold sober.

Manages it, once, with a general that plows him from behind, hard and fast enough that Mitaka can scrunch his eyes shut, constrict his breathing by surreptitiously cramming his mouth into his arm, and pretending he’s just pressing against the pillow, pretending it’s somebody else he’s being fucked by, pretends it’s Ma—Kylo, or…fuck.

The orgasm is extremely unsatisfying.

He doesn’t bother with a second date.

After a while, he doesn’t bother with first dates either.

When it’s all this dissatisfying, there’s not really a point.

*

(All his messages to Matt have been left on read. Mitaka wishes he knew a slicer who could remove them off the network completely, but he has to settle for just deleting them from his comm so that he stops being reminded.)

*

The worst part is that, even at his drunkest. Even nights like tonight, where he’s been in the officer’s bar since eighteen hundred and it’s now twenty-one hundred and he’s fucking plastered. He’s still—not doing anything about it. He could do something really stupid, like go down to the lower decks, where the technicians—like go back to Ren’s room, see if his thumbprint still works on the door, which it probably won’t, but maybe he has an officer override, maybe he has—

He heads back to his own room, like a dumbass. Fists his limp cock, doesn’t get anywhere. Is sick once before going to sleep.

Sleeps like shit.

Wakes up, goes to the bridge.

*  
There are a lot of things he didn’t notice about Matt before. Like how broad Matt’s shoulders are, even in the ill-fitting technician uniform. And how deft Matt’s fingers are when he’s working with little tiny wires. Mitaka had figured Matt would be a clumsy disaster about that, because he’s only a technician, and he keeps his boots on when they fuck, and Mitaka’s always done his own prep because he doesn’t trust Matt with any of it—but he’s watching Matt work on the technical upgrades to the consoles not too far away from Mitaka’s workstation, and Matt’s fingers are surprisingly nimble with the little wires.

It’s stupid, because Matt still won’t look at him.

But Mitaka can’t stop thinking about going over there, tapping Matt on the shoulder.

Kneeling in front of him, just to see what he’d do.

Maybe Matt would at least let Mitaka suck his cock.

He wouldn’t have to look at Mitaka for that.

*

On the day the repairs on the bridge are finished, Mitaka forgets his gloves at his workstation.

It’s stupid and not like him, but Hux had been on a tear about something, and Mitaka had been doing his goddamn best to keep up with him without actually lowering himself to running, which wasn’t working out as effectively as he wanted. He’d taken his gloves off to avoid sweating through them, then taken them out of his jacket pocket so they didn’t ruin the lines of his uniform, shoved them to the back of his workstation so they wouldn’t be in the way of his keyboard—and then just left them there.

He doesn’t realize until he goes to let himself into his room, and realizes that his hands are bare.

Fuck.

When he gets back to the bridge, it only takes a moment to walk in, retrieve his gloves, and escape out the side entrance. The hall is blissfully empty, except for the low rumble of a conversation down the hall—but before his feet have received the notification to turn around, he’s already turned the corner, just in time to recognize the people involved in the conversation.

It’s Thanisson and Matt. Matt is pulling the same stunt he’d pulled on Mitaka, but this time he’s got his coveralls tied around his waist, showcasing his bare arm as he props himself on the wall next to Thanisson.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Thanisson asks incredulously. “You’re a fucking _tech_.”

“I’m not kidding,” Matt mumbles.

Mitaka’s shoulders pull up around his ears, and he takes a step back just to make sure he’s not seen by either of them.

“I’m on the officer track,” Thanisson says, and he extends his arm, points to his insignia. “See?”

Matt huffs out an irritated breath, voice getting louder. “So? The fuck you even do all day, stand there at your little workstation and look pretty?” He jams his bare hand back through his hair, takes a step back. “Technicians do all the fucking work here. We fix your fucking computers, and we fix your radar systems, and we install upgrades so that you don’t even have to wait for the fucking ping from deck to deck, you can just have anything instantly, whenever you want it. I’ve spent the last fucking two weeks on my hands and knees crammed into little tiny spaces splicing wires together so that you don’t have to take more than a step away from your workstation except when you have to shit. Or are the medical technicians coming up here next week to sort that out for you too?”

Thanisson has gone absolutely crimson, sputtering and trying to get a full sentence out. “I can’t _believe_ you grunts, I can’t—you don’t have any fucking idea—”

Holy fuck, is this how Mitaka looks to Matt? Is this how Mitaka _sounds_?

“—I will _never_ be seen anywhere with you,” Thanisson finally manages.

_Not bad for a technician._

“So what,” Matt says belligerently. “I was just asking.”

“Well, fuck off,” Thanisson says. “I’m not going for a drink with you.” He straightens his jacket, turns sharply on his heel, and heads off down the hall, away from Mitaka.

Matt scowls after him. Then he turns and punches the wall sharply without wincing, even though there’s a smear of blood left behind. He looks down to his overalls, unties the sleeves from around his waist, and yanks them back up on his shoulders, covering his faded grey-white undershirt.

“Hey,” Mitaka says.

Matt stops moving for a moment before huffing out an angry breath, and reaching down to zip up his overalls. He doesn’t turn around.

“That sucks,” Mitaka says. “I’m sorry he was like that.”

Matt turns, slowly. “What do you care,” he asks. His face is stormy, his brows pulled together, and his entire body radiating tension.

Mitaka swallows, dodges the question. “If you wanted a drink…I’ll swipe you into the officer’s lounge.” He’s allowed to do that, he’s allowed to have guests. He feels oddly heady with the inappropriateness of it, with the look that he’s sure would be on Thanisson’s face if Mitaka came in there with Matt, and he could just…offer that, and it would make up for something, right? It would…

“No,” Matt says bluntly. He’s watching Mitaka now, not in the hungry way he used to watch him, but still, somehow, just as intense.

“A-alright,” Mitaka says, heart pounding. “Right. I’ll, uh.”

“I wasn’t asking him for a drink,” Matt says bluntly. “I offered the drink first because he looked like he maybe needed that in advance.” This time, his eyes deliberately skate down Mitaka’s body, and they don’t land back on his face before Matt keeps speaking. “You wouldn’t, though, would you.”

Mitaka swallows, hard. “No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

“I’m going back to my room,” Matt says. Just like that, the moment is broken.

“Right, I…”

“You want a second chance?” Matt asks. He phrases it like a challenge instead of like a question, and Mitaka nearly bites his own tongue in an effort to get his answer out.

“Yes,” Mitaka says immediately.

“Fine.”

*

Matt’s room is completely devoid of personal belongings. There’s a pile of overalls, a pile of shirts, a pile of underwear, a pile of unpaired socks. The personal workstation is turned off and covered with dust, and the desk is littered with empty energy drink cans. Matt’s bed is unmade, sheets rumpled, and there are crumpled up tissues and lube on the stand next to the bed.

It’s disgusting.

Mitaka steels himself and steps inside.

Matt shuts and locks the door behind him, crosses his arms over his chest, and does…nothing.

“Okay,” Mitaka says softly. “Do you want—do you want to have intercourse, or do you want me to blow you?”

Matt just watches him for a moment, and then shrugs.

“I am trying,” Mitaka says, “to say sorry. For…before.”

“When you called out Kylo Ren’s name.”

“Yes.”

“While I was choking you.”

“Yes.”

“And fucking you on my cock.”

“Yes.”

“And you called out his name.”

“Yes,” Mitaka snaps. He wants nothing more than to shut his eyes, but he forces himself to make eye contact instead. “It was a recent breakup,” he says, finally. “I…slipped up.”

Matt still looks furious.

“I’m sorry.”

Matt shifts his jaw. “I don’t want you to do that again,” he says.

“Okay,” Mitaka agrees.

“Just…don’t say anything.”

Mitaka nods. “Right.” Swallows. “What would you like me to do?”

“Strip,” Matt says.

Mitaka takes a deep breath, looks down at himself. Starts methodically removing every item of his uniform, folding each one and setting it on the seat of the unused desk chair. Jacket first, then undershirt. Boots. Jodhpurs. Socks. Underwear. He’s already hard, his cock jutting out from his body, nipples peaked on his chest.

Matt’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, and he’s just—staring, eyes scanning all over Mitaka’s body like he’s cataloguing it. Mitaka shifts his bare feet on the floor, tries to force himself to be comfortable instead of aroused, but it’s not helping.

(It doesn’t look like Matt’s hard yet. He looks less furious than he did a few moments ago, but he doesn’t look aroused either.)

“On the bed,” Matt says.

Mitaka nods and goes, kneeling on it first, and then bending over until he’s on all fours, rests his head in his arms so that he doesn’t have to think too much about what’s on the sheets—except he can’t even get away from that, because now that his face is down here, the entire bed smells like Matt.

(He can feel precome beading at the tip of his cock. It’s not long now until Matt notices it.)

“Your ass is dry,” Matt says, sounding confused, and also closer.

“I came back to the bridge for my gloves,” Mitaka says, and then elaborates. “I didn’t think I was getting fucked.”

“Oh,” Matt says. “You just…in advance?”

Mitaka chuckles into his arm. “Please tell me that you don’t believe everything you see in porno.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, a soft thud, and Mitaka braces himself against a sharp slap, or a reprimand, or—

—and that’s Matt’s tongue, swiping up the crack of his ass. Mitaka involuntarily shudders, curses himself even as he presses his hips back, closer to Matt.

“Fuck you taste good,” Matt mutters against him. “Little entitled officer—” He groans, shoves his tongue even further inside Mitaka.

Mitaka whimpers. It’s not that he hasn’t had this done to him before—he has, lots of times—but it’s either been with barriers, or it’s been shallow, other men’s tongues lapping tentatively at his ass before getting in there with their fingers to actually open him up, but Matt is sucking and licking at him like he’s intending to do all the work with his tongue, like he’s going to leave his fingers out of the equation entirely and just jam his thick, wet tongue all the way in here.

(Mitaka vaguely realizes that he’s whimpering, audibly, the kind of sound that’s definitely going to travel through the walls, because there’s no way they soundproofed the technician’s quarters down here, not like the officer quarters—and he quickly finds that he doesn’t even fucking care, because he can feel Matt’s heavy breathing against his balls, can feel Matt’s slobber dripping down his crack. His toes are curling already and they’ve hardly started.)

He reaches his hand back between his legs for his cock, and Matt shoves his hand there first, gropes around until he finds Mitaka’s wrist, and pins it down to the bed.

“Let me,” Matt growls.

Mitaka shudders. He can smell Matt, smell his body right from Matt’s sheets, from his sweat. The same sweat that’s going to end up all over Mitaka’s naked body by the end of this, instead of just ending up on his uniform.

(He should have done this ages ago instead of holding back. Matt’s tongue in his ass is everything—sloppy, erotic, perfect—and he just keeps _doing_ it, hardly even stopping to breathe, just eating Mitaka out like this is his favourite activity, and for all Mitaka knows, maybe it is. Maybe Matt likes this even better than anything else they’ve done. Maybe this is Matt’s thing, just like the choking is Mitaka’s. Maybe they can—)

“Want my fingers?” Matt slurs the question out. He sounds sex-drunk, his breaths coming short and fast.

“Fuck yes,” Mitaka says, shifting on the bed. “I want—please.”

There’s silence, for a moment.

“Please?” Mitaka repeats.

Matt mutters something behind him, then spits and presses fingers into Mitaka’s ass, slow and steady, the pressure stretching his rim and setting all his nerve endings alight.

“Fuck,” Mitaka pants, the sheet underneath him starting to dampen just from his mouth. “How many is that?”

“One,” Matt rumbles from behind him.

Mitaka curses, presses against him harder. “More,” he pleads. “Please?” He casts back through his memory, trying to think of what else he could say—and then his entire thought process is lost as Matt’s thick finger stabs at his prostate. “Matt,” he whines involuntarily. “Please, Matt?”

“Fuck,” Matt says in response, pulling his finger out and then pressing back in with two, this time, stretching Mitaka even wider. “Gonna get you so ready for my cock.” He presses down with his hand, pushing Mitaka flat down on the bed, and pulling his fingers back. There’s a _click_ sound, and then the pressure is back with a vengeance, Matt’s fingers now lube-slick and actively stretching Mitaka out, rubbing against his prostate quick and fast while his other hand is suddenly resting on the back of Mitaka’s neck, and then curling around to start restricting his airway.

Mitaka’s breath catches in his lungs. He’s going to come. It’s way too soon—they’ve hardly gotten started—but between the rimming and Matt’s hand on his throat and the fingers and just the sheer arousal from being here, Mitaka’s already nearly there. He should say something so Matt can fuck him, but his entire body is focused on getting air into his lungs, trying to get enough breath, trying to focus on the way Matt’s fingers feel stretching him out, how tight his balls are pulled into his body, how—

Matt squeezes his hand, once, and Mitaka comes helplessly all over himself and the sheets below him, his entire body sagging. “Matt!”

“…holy fuck,” Matt says. He grabs Mitaka’s hips, flips him over so quickly Mitaka’s head is spinning. His cock is lying limp on his pelvis, smearing the rest of his orgasm across his skin. He should be—doing something, contributing in some way, but he can’t even summon the energy to drag himself out of the wet spot. He lifts his head off the bed, squints at Matt, who is still dressed, for some godforsaken reason, except for his hard cock, which is jutting out from his unzipped overalls, and which Matt is stroking with his lube-drenched hand as he stares down at Mitaka’s body.

“You should have been naked this whole time,” he huffs, hand speeding up on his cock.

“Yes,” Mitaka agrees breathlessly. “I should have been.”

“Wanna come all over you,” Matt continues.

“Yes, please—”

“Gonna fuck you first, though,” Matt says. He reaches for Mitaka’s knee, presses it back into his chest, and then steadily pushes his cock in.

It’s not like how they usually fuck—rough, fast, and hard. Matt doesn’t even reach for Mitaka’s throat this time. He’s staring down at the places where their bodies join, at the stretch of Mitaka’s ass around Matt’s cock as he slowly presses it inside, and when he bottoms out, he just stays there a moment, the open zipper of his overalls scraping against Mitaka’s left thigh. He’s breathing heavily, sweating through his undershirt, his blonde hair stuck to his face and a smear of lube on his glasses.

Mitaka missed this.

He gets his feet underneath him, braces himself on Matt’s bed, and presses up against Matt. Matt shudders, and then reaches behind himself, grabs his undershirt and yanks it over his head, drops his overalls, all without removing his cock from inside Mitaka’s body. Then he bends down, grinds his cock into Mitaka, and picks him up, hands tight on Mitaka’s arms. He turns so that he’s holding Mitaka up in the air, sits down on the bed, and then lies down, swinging his legs over so that Mitaka is riding him.

“Work,” Matt growls, tucking his hands behind his head, flexing his massive biceps. “Do it.”

Mitaka pants, a little dizzy from the sudden change in position. He swears if he puts his hand on his own stomach, he’ll be able to feel Matt’s cock, Matt’s so deep inside him. He plants one hand behind himself, on Matt’s massive thigh, and the other on Matt’s abs, which Matt flexes underneath him.

“Like that,” Matt confirms.

Mitaka shifts his body upwards and then lets himself fall back down, speared on Matt’s cock. The copious lube makes a horrifically loud squelching sound, and Mitaka winces, but Matt just grins wolfishly at him, and so Mitaka continues, even though his thighs are burning, and he’s covered in Matt’s sweat.

“Fuck,” Matt breathes. “You’re tiny. Look at you. You’re so fucking small, and you’re taking my entire cock.”

“The whole thing,” Mitaka gasps, thighs aching as he fucks himself back down onto Matt’s length. His own cock is making a valiant effort to rise again even though this is way sooner than his refractory period usually allows. “Feels so fucking good inside me. Shit, sorry—not s’posed to talk—”

“Go ahead,” Matt says. He unfolds his hands from behind his head. Grabs Mitaka’s left hip, and then extends his left hand, hand curled enticingly. “You want it,” he says, bluntly. “Show me.”

Mitaka groans. He’s hard again. He’s hard again and he shouldn’t be, he’s hard again, and he wants to be, he can feel Matt gutting him from the inside, and he’s about to let Matt gut him from the outside too—and he pitches forward into Matt’s waiting hand, lets Matt hold him up by the neck, restricting his breathing as Matt fucks up into him, hard and fast, and Mitaka gasps for breath against Matt’s palm. He wants to touch himself. He wants to touch himself so badly even though it’s going to hurt, even though he’s way too sensitive for this—but he wants it, he wants it, he wants it, he wants—

“Matt,” he whines. “Matt, I—”

Matt twitches underneath him, rams up into him and then holds there, his hand tight on Mitaka’s hip, sliding from Mitaka’s throat down to his chest, twisting at one of his nipples. Matt’s eyes roll back in his head for a moment, but Mitaka doesn’t understand until Matt groans, a vocalization that comes from deep within his chest. Matt’s coming inside him right now.

Mitaka gasps in a half-breath. This is it—his entire body is consumed by it, and he’s here only as a vessel for Matt, Matt is enveloping him completely—

“Hands on the headboard,” Matt says.

Mitaka squints at him. “Wha—?”

“Headboard,” Matt repeats, and then he grabs Mitaka by the hips and pulls him forward. When Matt’s cock pops out of Mitaka’s ass, Mitaka bites back a scream—he’s open and gaping, and can feel Matt’s come sliding out of his ass and smearing on his thigh—but he reaches out anyways, and grips the headboard tightly, only for Matt to give him another tug until his ass is—oh, fucking _hell_ , until he’s perched on top of Matt’s mouth, and Matt is slurping the come right back out of him, tongue spearing inside him.

Mitaka rests his forehead against the cool wall, pants into it, fingers clenching on the headboard. He can hardly think, it’s like he’s been stripped completely naked, scraped clean from the inside out, and whoever he is when he staggers out of Matt’s room—he won’t be the person he was when he walked in.

“Touch yourself,” Matt says.

“Can’t.”

“Try,” Matt challenges.

Mitaka fumbles for his cock. It’s hard, sticking up against his stomach, and touching himself feels simultaneously like a massive relief, and an odd kind of pain. He doesn’t have time to think about it—can’t think about anything, just wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself hard and fast, the way he thinks Matt would like it, and it turns out he likes it too, because Matt sucks at the rim of his ass, hard, and Mitaka shudders and comes all over his hand, sags against the wall as the aftermath hits him, a wave of pleasure and exhaustion and bone-deep satisfaction.

“There you go,” Matt’s saying. He’s hauling Mitaka down onto the bed, arranging Mitaka on his chest, his big hand resting on Mitaka’s back. “You’re covered in sweat,” he says, after a moment.

“Mmm,” Mitaka responds. His heart is still hammering in his ears, and he’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to calm down from this.

“Didn’t know you could,” Matt says, finally. “Sweat.”

“Still human.”

“Wasn’t sure about that either.”

Mitaka takes a breath to argue about it—and then just exhales instead, shifts his head up so that he’s looking directly at Matt.

Matt is a mess. There’s a smear of semen and lube on the side of his mouth, and his hair is disgusting. Mitaka is quite certain he doesn’t look any better.

“I’m sorry,” he says, again. “About before.”

“…it’s alright,” Matt says.

“I was thinking,” Mitaka continues. “Now that you’re not on the bridge anymore, I won’t see you as often…did you want access to my calendar?”

Matt just looks confused.

“So we can…if you want to do this again? If you want to keep doing this?”

“Oh,” Matt says, smiling, suddenly, for the first time that Mitaka’s ever seen. It looks good on him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, definitely. I—yeah. That’d be—that’d be real good.”

* * *

Matt’s gym routine is perfectly timed so that he’ll be mid-workout when Kylo Ren arrives at the gym, which should be in the next thirteen minutes. He’s just getting started with his cable crossovers, because he increased the weight on those earlier this week, and already maximized his pump, so he’s definitely at peak fitness right—

—his comm buzzes.

He lets go of the D-rings, lets the weights slam to the ground and completely ignores the dirty looks the other gym users try to give him as he swipes his comm up from the floor, thumbs it open.

_Lt. Mitaka: Ducked out of that meeting I was supposed to be in._

_Lt. Mitaka: Don’t cut your workout short, I have messages to catch up on._

_Lt. Mitaka: See you when you’re done._

Matt grins, tries to catch somebody’s eye—anybody’s eye—just so he can tell them why he’s leaving early, but nobody will make eye contact with him. He announces it anyways—”My boyfriend is outside. I’m going to meet him.”—and then drops his comm into the pocket of his workout shorts, heads for the showers. There’s no point in doing anything other than towelling off perfunctorily—they’re just going to get filthy again anyway—so it’s a matter of minutes until Matt is exiting the changeroom, just in time to see Kylo Ren standing outside.

Specifically, Kylo Ren is standing right next to Mitaka, and he’s using Matt’s fucking move, black-robed arm extended right next to Mitaka’s head as his helmet tips down so that the two of them can talk.

Matt’s blood runs cold.

“—been…thinking about what you said,” Kylo Ren is rumbling through his mask, voice coming out flat and crackled. “The things I refused to do.”

The last six months flash before Matt’s eyes. Mitaka’s little body, curled against his own, Mitaka’s mouth on his cock, his mouth on Mitaka’s ass, but above all else, Mitaka’s neck tilted back, those bruises on his neck that had drawn Matt to him in the first place, the bruises he’d thought had come from Kylo Ren, but they hadn’t—but they could, now, if the way Ren is looming over Mitaka is any indication, that’s exactly how Matt had approached Mitaka in the first place, that’s exactly how, that’s his fucking technique, he’s talked about it in the gym and everything, that’s—

“No, thank you,” Mitaka says blandly. His eyes are still focused on his datapad, and he hasn’t even bothered to look up. “I’m seeing someone.”

There’s a burst of static from Ren’s helmet. “Don’t underestimate what I’m offering you—”

“Then don’t you,” Mitaka snaps, “underestimate what _he’s_ offering _me_. You had your chance, and you said you didn’t want to mix work with pleasure.” Mitaka tilts his head up, a movement that looks like it’s a motion of pride—but Matt knows just as well as Mitaka does that he’d left bruises on Mitaka’s neck last night, and that Ren will be able to see them peeking out above Mitaka’s collar when Mitaka tilts his head like that.

“…are you happy, though,” Ren rumbles. “Is it possible for you to be—”

“Very,” Mitaka says blithely. “See you on the bridge, Commander.” And with that, he tucks his datapad into his pocket, and then heads off in the direction of the lift.

Kylo Ren’s helmet turns, and he makes visor contact with Matt. “…coming to workout?” he asks.

Matt can’t suppress his smile. “Nah, but have a good one,” he says magnanimously, because he can. “I’m out.” He gestures toward the lift. “Got a boyfriend now,” he says.

His comm buzzes again. Matt pulls it out of his pocket, looks at it.

_Lt. Mitaka: Heading back to your room, I’ll meet you there._

Matt starts ambling down the hall toward the lift, contemplating his options.

_Matt: He said thingS he refused._

_Matt: I only know about the choking._

_Lt. Mitaka: ??_

_Lt. Mitaka: Oh, fuck, you saw that._

When Matt rounds the corner, Mitaka is standing there, frowning, and typing furiously on his datapad.

“Don’t send that,” Matt blurts out.

Mitaka looks up at him, eyes wide. “I was just—an explanation—”

“Don’t send it,” Matt repeats. He comes in close, crowds Mitaka up against the lift doors. “I wanna choke it out of you.”

Mitaka’s cheeks go red and he shifts, widens his stance.

Like that’ll prevent Matt from knowing that his cock is hard.

“Yeah?” Matt asks, pushing for an answer.

“Yeah,” Mitaka answers breathlessly. “Yes, please.”

Matt grins, scoops up Mitaka and tosses him over his shoulder, ignoring the high-pitched noise Mitaka makes. “We’re taking the stairs,” he says, turning his head and biting Mitaka’s thigh through his jodhpurs. “Lift takes too long.”

“It’s sixteen floors,” Mitaka objects.

Matt shrugs, Mitaka’s weight on his shoulder hardly even a thing. “Wasn’t planning on going the entire way,” he says. “Got access to a storage room on two floors down.”

Mitaka sighs, and then shifts in a way that grinds his hard cock against Matt’s shoulder. “Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, Matt.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Mitaka has bruises from being choked significant enough he goes to medbay as a precaution; the choking was consensual, and the bruising causes no lasting damage | Hux is overly involved in the personal lives of his staff, including accessing medical records that should be private | the cafeteria sandwich deserves better | Matt is fairly predatory with Mitaka; Mitaka is very okay with it | Mitaka contemplates getting Matt kicked off the bridge if the sex is bad, which would be an abuse of his rank | Matt and Mitaka don't use barriers and there's no discussion of test results either before or after | Matt shoves his fingers into Mitaka's mouth while they're fucking; Mitaka does the same when he's masturbating on his own and is very into it | Mitaka is shitty about Matt's rank immediately post-sex; rude! | Mitaka calls Matt by Kylo's name when they're fucking, and doesn't realize it until a day later | Mitaka does some casual dating when he thinks he and Matt are done; it's unsatisfying for him and he eventually stops | Thanisson is also shitty about Matt's rank | Matt punches a wall and draws blood, but doesn't seem to care | Matt drags Mitaka over the coals re: calling him by Kylo's name; being upset about it is probably a first for Matt | Matt tells Mitaka not to talk; Mitaka ends up talking anyways | Matt proposes using withheld details of Mitaka and Kylo's sex life in a scene between Matt and Mitaka; Mitaka enthusiastically consents


End file.
